


Need

by Davechicken



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5506076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the loss of his daughter, Chris struggles to find something. Anything. Anything that will make things okay again. </p>
<p>He never *meant* to ask Derek. Well. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thekingsparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingsparty/gifts).



He’d had a drink or two too many. Maybe more than two. It’d probably be embarrassing to admit how few units of government-sanctioned poison it took to affect his system, something unmanly about a man who hasn’t propped his social life and emotional health up with fermented grains and grapes. His constitution meant he could metabolise the alcohol from his system faster than most, but the immediate effect was more pronounced than in a hardened consumer. For someone who swore by his senses, who spent his whole life in control...

Well. It was certainly different.

Christopher Argent walked out of the bar and into the night, eyes slitting slightly as a garish neon sign declared something that was offered in the hopes of financial recompense. It might have been more liquor, it might have been unhealthy (and so, so good) food, it might have been the illusion of intimacy in the arms of an hourly-paid bedmate, or even a room where you could grind against said bedmate (or one the alcohol found you). In the friction of skin against skin against grimy, over-starched, too-thin sheets and the rush of hormones as your body sought the union designed to continue the species... you could convince yourself that you were finding some higher meaning, or a reason. That this was all good, fundamentally, and the pain would go and the world would be _right_. All the way up until that bittersweet climax, though, when the reality came crashing back through. You were half-dressed in a room that crawled with bugs and the body under you likely crawled with several others, and all that was left was a damp patch and a glassy-eyed partner, the acrid scent of sex cut under by the cheap perfume, and the industrial cream cleaner scumming up the bathroom sink.

The keys to his car jangled in his pocket, a familiar weight that most people knew. Most people who didn’t _also_ have the loving embrace of a hip-holster curled around their thigh, the solid metal of a working death-dealer pressed up against denim. He could feel the handgrip, the barrel, every familiar outcropping through the fabric. It wasn’t time for a handgun now, though. Keys. He had to focus, had to pull his attention back to the here-and-now.

Keys. His thumb slid over the small, plastic fob. There was one chain still hanging from the ring, something Allison had got him many, many years ago. Through every change of vehicle he’d salvaged it to bring with him, his lone sentiment he dared carry. There were no pictures of his family – his... late family – in his wallet, never wanting to give a potential captor a way into his armour-clad heart. If he had nothing distinguishing, no chink to weasel a blade or a claw under, then he could keep his family safe from all but those who already knew them. Or... so he had told himself. Fat lot of good that had done, really. And yet, every time he’d had new keys (because of the last car’s obsolescence, or because something big - it was a deer, naturally - had crushed through the grill) his short, snub nails had prised open the metal loops and pushed this one into pride of place.

Car. The keys were to the car. And his home. One other, that defied casual explanation, but which he knew intimately well. He swayed slightly – side-stepping away from the vertical tombstone of the door – and ran his calloused thumb over the button, springing out the jagged metal tongue. Thunk, thunk, thunk. The key was barely ever used physically, now. He’d press a button to open the doors, then use the marvels of modern technology to recognise his presence and cue the ignition. Keys. He could use them as ‘nature’ intended if he wanted to, but he didn’t even know if they went in both ways. He’d used them once – on purchase – to prove to himself they would work in the event of a drained cell battery... and then forgotten about it until now.

He wasn’t sure why that was important, but it was. Chris let his middle finger stroke between the two lips that concealed the metal normally, sliding through the groove and wondering what filth had accumulated deep inside. Was there blood in there? Was it his? Were there any traces of others? Had Allison handed him his keys, or Victoria? Were there traces of his daughter or his wife, there? 

Why would it matter? Traces couldn’t bring them back. A hair curled around a brush he hadn’t managed to throw out, a toothbrush with long-dried saliva... a pair of shoes with the insoles moulded through time to one owner alone... He needed to _blitz_ his home, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to throw out everything that had been theirs. When the last trace of them sat on top of a landfill, or was taken by grateful hands at a goodwill store... no. He wasn’t ready for that.

It was also why he was here, outside this dive, leaning back, now, against cool brick and weighing up the chances of an accident behind the wheel.

It wasn’t himself he was worried about, no. If his own stupidity led to a short, sharp snap of neck or a human kebab around jagged-glass and buckled-steel... so be it. It wouldn’t be how he had planned on going, nor the most glorious of exits, but it would do. The only thing holding him back was the unseen _other_. What if in his vehicular suicide... he wiped out someone else? Careened into the back of an SUV, crushed a child seat and... no. No. If he was that intent on ending it, and too cowardly to do what Victoria had done, then he would damn well pick a fight with something nasty and deserving of a few gunshot wounds on his way out. He let go of the keys, allowing them to fall back into place in his pocket, and tilted his head back to the cold, winter air. If he were a Hale, he’d consider letting out a deep, keening **awroo**. It felt like the sort of time you brought out a guttural howl of despair, but instead he laughed and kicked off from the wall and started walking.

There were other people out this late, but not many. Most of them huddled under their hoods and cast their eyes away, though he did have an offer of something (either drugs, sex, or... possibly both) down one alleyway, he politely declined and carried on walking. The majority of people would ignore someone who looked like they could handle themselves, unless substances had put them in extremis. He let the tang of the streets’ despair wash over him, not even sure where he was walking _to_. The sensible would hail (or call) a cab, pay the small fare to get home, reassess in the morning. The sensible. He was not sensible.

Instead he found himself in front of a familiar building, unsure if he’d meant to come, or if muscle-memory brought him, or if... what? He knew where Derek lived. He knew precisely where Derek lived. It could be no accident, though second-guessing his own subconscious was a game he didn’t feel up to playing. 

Chris wished he smoked. It was a terrible habit that poisoned your system, made you dependent and stained your fingers, teeth and lungs. It was also a wonderful reason to stand _outside_ and no one thought twice. Just another nicotine junkie getting his kicks. He’d kill for a death stick to tap between his fingers and watch the slow fire chew away rolled leaves and paper. Maybe he should take to keeping some around as a cover, to keep him from feeling self-conscious.

It was a new sensation. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so out of place before.

Just when he thought he’d gone utterly crazy, when he was about to walk off and... what? Something... Just then there was a creak of hinges and a shadow appeared from inside.

Not a shadow, a man. A man tall and broad, silhouetted by the light behind him. Though in the dim glimmer he could just make out the highlights of his cheeks and the whites of his eyes, filtered light straggling through roughly-chopped hair, he knew who it was.

Derek didn’t say anything. He stood in the doorway, arms folding across his chest. He’d sensed Chris’ presence (smell? Sound? Who knew) and come to see why he was here. Chris felt for the keys again, the warm, spiky metal not as reassuring, now. He could push it through his knuckles as a rudimentary weapon, but here they were... pointless. Without a car or a home to unlock, they became just a bundle of materials. The gun would do better, but it was further away. If he went for it, Derek would likely still overpower him in this short distance. A gun was only really useful from afar, or to intimidate those who didn’t know better. It was a tool of last resort, really.

And why was he even thinking of attacking him? Chris didn’t know. He was a werewolf – sure – but so was half of Beacon Hills, or so it felt some days. There’d been so much bad blood back and forth that now they were more or less family, anyway. Maybe not by marriage, or even by traditional ‘blood’, but the remaining scions of both ravaged families knew one another more than anyone outside this old feud could.

He let go of his keys, and stared back. What could he say? ‘I’m drunk and I walked here’? It didn’t exactly sound normal. Or was it? Did drunk people regularly walk to see other... people? He could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle upwards, feel the cold air pushing under his coat sleeves and up his arms. 

Normal people wouldn’t do _this_. Wouldn’t stand in complete silence, staring at one another, waiting to see who flinched first. Derek could likely stand there all night if he wanted to, and not feel any ill effects. Chris could take quite a bit more than this – even drunk – but it was unpleasant. He could lock his knees and will his eyes to take as long as possible between closings, but eventually the pressure in his bladder would become too intense, or maybe hunger would make his stomach growl uncomfortably so.

Derek turned on his heel, his movements almost silent in the night-time, the distant car-purrs drowning out any sound he made. He turned back into his loftspace, and Chris wondered what to do... until he saw the door left open behind him. The hunter grunted, shoving hands deeper into pockets, and followed him inside.

***

Derek’s loft was sparsely decorated, if you could call it that. It was the emotional equivalent of his keychain: functional, with the barest trace of humanity. Werewolficity. Whatever. You could see the bed from the couch from the kitchen from the... well, everything bar the bathroom. 

The Hale house had been like a house, from what he remembered. Rooms with walls that separated actions into discrete units. Places where family members could commune or conceal, depending on their mood at the time. Chris wondered what drove Derek to decorate this place the way he had. Was it some underlying fear that something could happen (a fire, a hunter, god knew what else) out of his eyeline? Or did he just not care to section things off, not expecting to need to? 

His eyes slid over things, seeing them in a new light. Or maybe bothering to look for the first time, if he was honest with himself. Derek was by the kitchen counter, prepping something... coffee? 

“Decaf, I assume?” Chris asked.

“I keep the real stuff, too,” Derek replied, apparently unperturbed by the transition from silence into conversation.

“Oh.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Yes, no.” It was baffling, really. Here he was in Derek Hale’s place, where he’d invited himself by proximity alone, and now coffee was being made for him without needing to ask. 

Did he reek that badly of cheap booze?

Derek had a French press, and the smell was both enticing and revolting in equal measure. Chris couldn’t actually remember the last time things had passed his lips that would count as ‘good for you’, but it was likely early that morning, or late the night before. Coffee was sort of good for you. The cream would be calorific at least, though he should attempt to find something that required chewing before his stomach atrophied to nothing more than an internal IV drip bag.

Days had sort of... started to blur a bit. Without any structure to them, with no schedule or outside influence, he’d slipped from the clock-watching circadian rhythms of normalcy into something chaotic and inexplicable. He’d found himself eating cereal when it was dark, or waking up at times he would not admit to aloud. Even now he wasn’t wholly sure what hour it was, and as he couldn’t see a clock and his phone and watch were both hidden, he lived in that strange limbo of ‘it’s not yet time for my eyes to sting when I blink, but that’s all I know’. 

The silver-tone spoon swirled in the cold creamer, and Derek tapped it on the side of the mug before putting on the drainer to the side of the sink. It was such a homely gesture that Chris wanted to laugh or scream hysterically, to grab him by his oversized arms and yell until he was blue in the face that _Derek Hale was not allowed to make coffee_. Or not like that, anyway. 

Instead he took the mug and cradled it close to his chest, feeling the heat radiate out and prickle circulation back into his fingers. The steam wafted up to his nose, and he realised he’d been a lot colder than he’d given himself credit for. He should have worn a thicker coat, not this flimsy jacket, but he normally went out at night to intense physical activity. So he wasn’t as used to the feeling of chill, because he’d usually be too busy to feel it.

It really only hit when he was on a stakeout, but that hadn’t happened in a while, either. He hadn’t hunted since... since...

Derek had only made one mug. He hadn’t made one for himself. Chris wasn’t sure why that was so important, but it was. He looked up to find the werewolf watching him, passively, and he took a slow sip of the scalding-hot liquid. Caffeine didn’t actually sober you up, but it did help water down the liquid already in you, and encourage you to piss out the rest. It was more the ritual of it, although if you’d asked him a month ago, or maybe two... he’d have laughed in your face if you suggested a Hale would invite him up for ‘coffee’. 

“Where did you leave your car?” Derek asked.

“Bar... few blocks away.” More than a few. He didn’t like to think how far he’d walked to get here. 

“I can go get it. Drive you home.”

It was a kind offer, of course. Would make life a lot easier for him, but there’d be the shame of having to be driven by Derek. Why that was worse than just turning up for coffee, he wasn’t exactly sure. But he knew that it was.

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

“You regularly stand outside at night, drunk and alone?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not okay.” Plenty of people did things only occasionally. “And wouldn’t it be a problem if I _did_ regularly stand outside at night, drunk and alone?”

Derek grunted in response, evidently without anything to say in response to that. Chris tried to hurry the rest of the liquid down, so he could leave and say thank you and goodbye. It burned the roof of his mouth and he nearly choked on it, so he relented and pulled it down to blow cold over it. 

“You want to tell me why you’re here?”

“I was just passing.”

“Uhuh.” 

Chris glared, frustration at something else finding an outlet in the younger man. Maybe it was his dismissive tone, but more likely it was that he was itching at a sore spot in his psyche and self-image that he couldn’t cover over. He slammed down the mug, and glared at him. “I was.”

“...okay.”

“I’ll get out of your fur.”

He pushed away from the counter, and took a step towards the door, ready to leave. Ready to leave, or so he said. Ready to just walk off and whatever reason he’d come for—

“Why did you come?”

Hand on the frame of the door, fingers tensing. He couldn’t claw through the wood, though he could scrape noisily if he wanted to. He’d asked himself that so many times, but found nothing satisfactory. He really had nowhere else to go, did he? Other than his family (what little there was left, what less would even talk to him), the numbers in his phone were people who could clean up a bloody mess, the Sheriff, a vet-cum-Druid and a bunch of teenagers who used to go to school with (or go to school with **and** date) his dead daughter. 

He couldn’t really call the pizza place and ask them to... what? Watch him have a meltdown? 

“I’ve been asking myself the same question.” He slid his palm over wood, slow and considering. He felt suddenly too hot, like the building had somehow taken him by surprise and mugged him with heat. Derek’s eyes on the back of his neck bored into his spine, made him suddenly both terrified and furious and paralysed between the two.

Quiet footsteps padded closer, and he turned to see Derek looming over him. He wasn’t even sure of what he wanted until he was, and then he had a hand fisted in the other’s loose shirt, yanking hard until they were chest-to-chest. Unlike Derek, he couldn’t hear the other’s heartbeat, but he could sure as hell hear his own. Was he insane? Was this stupid? He lunged forwards, whiskey-drenched lips trying to find the other’s, and instead meeting fuzz and skin.

Chris stopped, the reality of the situation kicking in. He was trying to kiss another man – a _werewolf_ at that – drunkenly, in the wake of his dead wife and child. Not... the most ideal situation to be in. He wasn’t sure what he was aiming for? Did he just want a quick fuck to take the edge off, or did he want... did he want... what?

“Chris...”

Between the devil and the deep, blue sea. He tried to back away, tried to let go and just slink backwards out through the door and into the night... but a firm hand clenched around his wrist, the one that was holding onto Derek’s shirt. It clamped shut and would not budge when he tugged, but Chris didn’t dare pull back enough to make eye-contact. Instead... instead he dropped his face onto Derek’s shoulder and groaned.

“You’re drunk.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

A pause, long and ponderous. Chris wanted the very earth to swallow him whole, but it wouldn’t. He tried again to pull his hand free, to back away, but Derek wasn’t going to let him get away that easily.

“It was a stupid mistake, alright? Just... just... pretend it never happened. I’m leaving town, anyway.” Probably. No, definitely. He’d been considering it, but this seemed to be the final nail in that coffin. No way could he walk around not knowing if he’d bump into him again. The shame and embarrassment would swallow him whole, and it would be best if he cut all ties with this accursed place and ran off into the dark unknown. Yes.

But Derek still wouldn’t let go, and he shoved at his chest in frustration with his free hand.

“You’re hurting,” Derek said, with more perception – or more compassion – than he ever expected. 

Chris tried again, and when he didn’t let go this time he slammed his fist into his chest and yelled. “For god’s sake, just let me go and drink so hard I can pretend I forgot this already!”

The hand on his wrist tugged, pulling his hand with it. He watched in horror as it was pulled to almost full extension out to the side, like a criminal half-crucified. He wriggled and writhed and wrenched his shoulder, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Panic must have shown in his eyes when he flickered them up to Derek, but the younger man simply shook his head slightly _no_. For some reason he accepted this (heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his _temples_ , a twitching, throbbing that wouldn’t go away) and he even let Derek pull his hand back in and twist it, baring his inner wrist to his face.

He watched as the other’s face gently shifted, a ripple of evolution and then the peek of two sharp, fine canines descending past his lips. He watched, too, as Derek brought his wrist within a hair’s breadth of those teeth (and they could sink in, could rip into his flesh, could make him howl in agony), but instead all that happened was a gust of air sucked in deep to scent the reek he must be giving off. Chris didn’t fight when lips pressed softly against the sensitive, thin skin. He didn’t fight when a warm, flat tongue laved over his pulse-point... did nothing but watch in horrified intrigue.

The moan that filled the room wasn’t his, oh no. Christopher Argent didn’t go around... _moaning_ just because someone had licked him. But then, Christopher Argent _also_ didn’t move obligingly when his wrist was twisted suddenly around behind him, and up between his shoulder blades. It hurt like hell, and he was forced to bend at the waist to accommodate it, but the pressure never seemed to give up. He was bent sort of... well. Sort of ridiculously half-over, a foot away from the wall. It was an entirely ridiculous position to be in, and he didn’t quite know what Derek had in mind?

How did you ask? He craned his head over his shoulder to catch his eyes, to maybe try posing the question (preferably without speaking), but the stern look on Derek’s face? It made his knees buckle slightly under the intensity of his gaze. He recognised on some level that this was a power play, that Derek was asserting his dominance over a lower-ranked pack-mate, or something like that... it was a ‘Look I Am The Boss’ thing, and Chris had to admit that – in this particular moment – he kind of was.

Half-drunk (half **blind** -drunk), exhausted, in Derek’s own turf, he really didn’t stand much of a chance. Not to mention he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ a chance. The more pressure applied, the sharper the sting, the clearer his mind became. It honed down from a wandering mess to just a low, needy voice saying: **yes**. He panted in air, spreading his legs just a little to give him a more stable base as he bent over more at the waist, trying to alleviate a little of the pain (and not - _definitely not_ \- to present a more submissive posture, no sir). Only what he gained in one angle he had to sacrifice in another, and bending more hurt in another way. Clearly the Hale wanted to prevent Chris from moving in any direction that he hadn’t first sanctioned. 

“Derek...”

“Shut up, Argent.” It wasn’t really a growl, but it was a command. It went straight to his core, all the way down his spine and ended somewhere in his gut. It rolled around like a gumball in the bottom of your screwball cone, noisy and too-sweet and always out of reach of your tongue until you tipped it over and it ran for your teeth, making a mess all over your face.

“I—”

“I said: **shut up**.”

Chris closed his teeth with an audible clack, going stiff as a board. This position was incredibly uncomfortable, and even more incredibly undignified. He grunted, and tried to get his breathing back under control. It wasn’t difficult to do, even drunk and bent over like this. He’d trained for years to master his body, to make it into a tool. Long, shuddery breaths into his chest, and he ran through the sensations of his frame, cataloguing each as he went like a mantra long-practiced.

Start at the toes. As long as you could feel and move them, they were generally fine. Up into the ankles, which were in a slight stress position, but holding up well. Higher into his calves, which were the same. Things got a little less great when it came to his knees, but that was because of a hunt gone wrong some five years ago (as long as that? Maybe longer, now) that had left him with occasional twinges beyond his years. Thighs were fine, but lower back felt stretched and the discomfort radiated down into his buttocks, his body wanting to clench up and tense against it, but his mind fighting the hindbrain reaction for all it was worth.

For once he had to include his groin in the assessment. Quite despite himself, low down in his balls there was an unfamiliar ache. It wasn’t the same as he remembered, or was it just that his sex drive had bottomed out to some morning stiffness that went away in the blink of an eye? It felt... different. He was painfully aware of the seam inside his briefs, of the metal zipper of his fly, and how there was nothing to do to relieve the tension. He couldn’t very well hump the air, and although one hand was free, he didn’t dare use it.

Higher up. Up into his core, into his torso which was a little uneasy with the position, but nothing serious. The stretch to his back would eventually become untenable, but for now was just a pleasant, low burn. Up into his shoulders, and to the arm hanging loose. Across to the other, bent and twisted, pretzel-like, up his back. He flexed his fingers to make sure he still could, then swallowed. Hard.

“Better,” came Derek’s voice, slightly reassuring in tone, but not entirely. 

Chris wondered what, precisely, was ‘better’. He started trying to answer back with something witty and cutting, but an internal battle over _what_ to say kept his tongue gridlocked. Eventually a hand in his hair tugged him around like a horse on reins, and he had no choice but to follow. Well. There was a choice, but the alternative might have ended with him scalped bloody, and his wrist snapped in two, so... not really.

Awkwardly he moved where he was pushed and pulled, the hands yanking him straight upright, but tugging his head back to expose his throat. Feeling very vulnerable, Chris took shaky steps towards the... towards the...

...knees locked, panic making his pulse pound like a pneumatic drill.

“Yes,” Derek said.

Chris tried to shake his head _no_ , but the grip was too hard to allow it.

“You came to me. You want this. You **need** this. Now... do you trust me or not?”

“It... it isn’t as simple as that,” Chris managed to reply.

“You need; I can give. Nothing simpler.”

It sounded like that, in theory. It sounded like sense. Derek was one of a handful of adults he knew, and even though most of the people on that list were ‘in’ on his other world, this other life... not many of them _knew_. Not what it felt like to lose your whole damn family, like Chris had. A sister, a wife, a daughter. A father mad, and all but lost. Derek knew that pain in a way he hoped the kids never would. Hard enough to lose one, but to lose... well... damn near all?

Trust him. Trust him with an unvoiced need he’d never really indulged? But it was true, it... wasn’t as simple as that. He tried to gently turn his head, asking for permission and not fighting this time. There was a pause of consideration, and his hair was released.

“...thanks,” he muttered. He meant it, even if his tone didn’t sound so much like he did. His knees were still locked, but Derek could pick him up without even thinking about it, so it was only a paper protest. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to think through the ever-thickening fog.

“So you’ve never...?”

Never what, Chris wondered? Never done things with a guy? A werewolf? Never let someone overpower me? Never turned up drunk for a one night stand? Which? He laughed, and shook his head. “Not... really.” 

“You can trust me.”

“Not you that’s the problem, here.”

“Let me handle that part, then.”

He sounded so sure of himself, or he did on the surface. But maybe somewhere on the edges, somewhere in the cracks between his words... a little boy trying to be everything his family wanted of him. Neither of them had had it easy, not by a long shot. 

Derek... he did trust Derek. With his life, apparently, just not... this. Not fully, not yet. But he wanted to, or he would never have turned up on his doorstep drunk and vaguely horny and very ornery. The hand on his wrist was warm and secure, the other one not making contact, as per his request. It helped, on some level. He’d asked, and Derek had listened. The werewolf could easily overpower him if he so chose to. He could strip him buck-naked and do... any number of things to his body, and Chris would have little say in the matter. But he hadn’t. And he’d... he _knew_.

That was the terrifying bit, the knowing. The fact that Derek could see past his brave facade and into the crumbling mess below: the soldier craving a general, the weapon needing a hand to wield it. Normally his work kept him satisfied enough, but he’d certainly had his... proclivities. Victoria had indulged some, but he’d never dared ask her for the worst of them. The filthy, nasty, degrading things that had sometimes helped him in the shower, on his own, in the morning. Derek knowing this was incredibly risky, and yet...

A pause, more, and he nodded his consent. The hand didn’t go back to his hair, but he was walked forwards until his shins hit the bedframe. Eyes jammed shut, Chris felt himself pushed over and forwards some more until his face met mattress and his ass lifted up and greeted the ceiling like an old friend. Shuddering, he braced his legs just slightly, hoping the gesture would be appreciated this time.

He was expecting something sharp and to the point, not... not fingers wandering through his hair. That wasn’t how this went. Didn’t he know? He turned his head, but it was still pleasant. When was the last time anyone had caressed him, had tried to soothe him with contact? 

“Do you know what you need?” Derek asked.

“...I thought you said you did,” he snapped back, suddenly doubting all over again.

“I’m asking,” Derek replied, no change in his tone in response to Chris’ challenge. “You need just pain, you need to feel out of control, you need to be humiliated, or you want me to find out for myself?”

Surely the... whatever Derek was... should just... do? Not ask. The question distressed him, and he tried to push back up again. “This was—”

The second hand met the back of his head and shoved him back into the mattress to the incidental music of a growl. He could _hear_ teeth. 

“I was asking because you might know,” Derek said. “Because you might be able to ask, but it seems like you don’t. Or you’re not able to tell me. I’ll figure it out for myself.”

Chris pushed back some more, only to feel himself entirely pinned. This... did present him with some information his addled mind hadn’t processed before: he could now _grind_. And when he bucked and tried to break free... it gave his poor, trapped dick something to work with. All of a sudden it was much, much more fun than the prospect of escape, and so he continued. 

Right up until a pair of thighs moved over his hips to pin him bodily down. He couldn’t really writhe any more, and he yelped in wordless protest. The weight on him got heavier and heavier, like Derek was some goddamn immovable force, some creature made of purest lead and muscle, and Chris cursed into the bed and kicked his feet in childish annoyance.

Only... Derek was unmoved. Literally. Chris spat and cursed and frothed and kicked and Derek just kept sitting on him until the tantrum passed. One hand on his wrist, still (and his shoulder and elbow were beginning to ache in that way that meant tomorrow would be a bad day for reaching with it), the other on the back of his head. 

Was he getting off on this? Did Derek... like holding hunters down? Had he done this before? 

Probably. He’d spoken like he had, implied this was not the first time. Jealousy knotted in his gut, and he growled before lying still. He didn’t go soft and pliant, though, because he was angry at the thought of others like this, face down and screaming. Instead he went as stiff and inflexible as a tree-trunk. A thick one. One that didn’t like to bend.

How was this supposed to help his fucking mood?

Even when Derek moved Chris’ hand up and over his head (oh god, oh god, blood flowing through it again and leaving prickles of sensation in its wake), he still just lay there sullen and resentful. Both hands together, and his jaw clenched so tight he could all but _feel_ the enamel threatening to crack.

“You can hate me,” Derek said, pinning both hands with one of his own. “All you want. I don’t care. I don’t need you to like me.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

It even sounded petty and pathetic to him, and he winced.

“Might even help if you hate me, to start with. But you need someone to push through your bullshit, Chris. You need someone to chip through that glass armour you’ve got up. And it will hurt – it will hurt like hell – but after...”

“I’ll be defenceless.” That was what armour did, right? Defended you. Protected you. If Derek planned on pulling him out of his shell... well. That was not going to be a good long-term strategy.

“You can still wear it outside,” Derek said. “No one needs to know. That’s why you need to trust _me_.”

“Yeah, like you’re not going to brag about how you fucked over a hunter?” 

“To who?”

Derek had a point. Who could he tell? His sister had fled, his uncle was... not... the best of people to confide in... did Derek even have friends? Not really. His attempt at a pack had ended disastrously, all told. His betas dead or sworn to a new Alpha, Derek was about as alone as he was. 

Stop. He should say it. ‘Stop’. He was pretty sure Derek would listen, pretty sure the man wasn’t some rapist. Okay... pretty damn sure. But he’d gotten this far and if Derek could make the roiling emptiness in his gut go, even for a night...

Another nod.

Wait. If... if they were doing this... “Uh... don’t I need... a word?”

“You can use one. ‘Stop’ will even work. Generally I read physical signals and emotional cues.”

“Right. I forgot you were a Werewolf Pain Whore.”

Derek froze at that, and maybe... okay definitely he’d been... rude. He was the one who showed up, after all. Derek had just offered to help, maybe a little more aggressively than most would offer, but Chris didn’t want consoling pats of the hand. He wanted... _fuck_. This.

“You want to leave, you just say it,” Derek replied, his tone icy. 

Yes, yes, that’s what I’ve been saying all along. Fuck off and let me go. Let me go wallow in my misery. Let me find my car and drive anyway. Let me destroy myself by degrees...

Instead... instead he pushed his face into the bed, ashamed of himself. His cheeks burned hotly with self-loathing, and he wished he could just reset the day. Hell, the year. That would be nice. Go back to before all this crap happened... go back to... ‘normal’.

I’m sorry. He didn’t say it, but he realised he meant it. He’d lashed out unfairly, and he didn’t really want to hurt Derek’s feelings. But that was part of this, too. Derek had said he could hate him, had said it might help. There was anger in him about so much that he’d had to bottle down, had to keep in check to save the kids from a myriad questions and juvenile records. It’s what you did. It’s what he’d _had_ to do. 

Claws touched his scalp, pressed through his hair and stroked over his skull and down the back of his neck. His shirt and coat went in one short, sharp shock. The fabric fell down onto his back, but two little gestures and his clothing fluttered apart around him, cascading to the bed like broken angel’s wings. Those claws kept on moving, kept on dancing over bared skin and Chris was sure Derek took the utmost care not to break the surface.

It was hard. Hard to just lie there and take it, even with the weight of him holding him down. Even with his hands utterly stuck into position. His chest heaved around ragged breaths and he tried to memorise the route those sharp, keratin finger-points took. Derek had a preternatural way of chasing muscle, bone and sinew, digging in just enough to make him gasp, but not enough to make it unpleasant. Just when he was ready to grit his teeth harder, kick into the bed in a defiant refusal to cede, the sensation moved or morphed into something else. It went from _too much, too much, too much_ into **more, oh god more**. He was like an orchestra of sensation, and Derek conducted every last note.

Chris wondered if he was so much of a masochist because of his training, or if he’d been better as a hunter because... because he was wrong. Deep down inside he... wanted this. Wanted the pain, the humiliation. Eyes jammed so tight shut he saw stars, he bit his lip to keep the sounds as low as possible, letting the borderline agony spread to take over more of his mind, to drive out the worries and the fears.

It was working, though. He was... close. On the edge between panic and bliss, teetering and unwilling to fall. The minute he did – whichever way he did – this moment would be gone. He clung to the razor-edge with everything he had, kept the rage and the hate as close as the stinging pain... but then he felt Derek shift and soft lips on the back of his neck heralded a bite so deep that the pain whited out his mind. It was all he could think of, all he could process... the sharp, sharp sting and the warm spurt of blood and the way whatever was in him seemed to... seemed to _snap_ and he called out in blissed agony, not even aware that the weight on his hips had shifted.

Derek had moved completely, but Chris just had no clue. It still felt like his full weight on his hips, on his tailbone, and he didn’t move an inch as the tongue lapped at his wound, saliva cleaning up the bloodied mess. It was... it was heaven. Sensation so pure and pristine, the sense of surrender in offering his throat to a wolf and having it taken like this... if Derek had red eyes, now? For this moment Chris wouldn’t care at all. 

The fight was gone. For the minute, anyway. The angry, yelling, terrified voice inside of his head was gone, and all he felt was... safe. Even the pain wasn’t pain right now, it was just a strong sensation that made his mind float. Endorphins rushing through his whole body, making him calm and content, coating his insides in golden sunlight and honey. He became aware that Derek was no longer straddling him, but only because he felt like he was floating off the bed and two feet into the air.

“Good,” Derek rumbled by his ear, and Chris turned his face towards him, smiling slightly. “That’s better.”

Eyes still shut (but not aware that might be strange) Chris reached for the other’s face like a flower to the sun, slow and insistent for kisses. “Thank you,” he said, in a voice both distant and musical, his normal aggression gone.

He was rewarded for his request with a kiss that was surprisingly chaste, all things considered. Derek kissed much more shyly than he did anything else, and Chris felt a little dance of butterflies deep in his stomach as the werewolf teased his lower lip delicately. He parted his mouth and Derek only dipped in slightly, left him craving more and more. He wanted this to go on forever, and maybe it was. He had no concept of time, just of the hands that stroked him and the tongue that licked over healing skin solicitously, earning a purr each time he did.

“I...”

Words were hard. Words were like the syrup at the bottom of your cup when the rest of your beverage was gone, clinging to the base and refusing to come to your tongue.

“What is it, Chris?”

“...want... want you to fuck me.”

More touches, this time fingers over his cheeks. Chris mewled in contentment and pressed into them, not even surprised at himself. It was so nice, so nice to be held. He felt safe and secure, felt... cared for. Not loved, but it was close enough. 

“You’re not in the right frame of mind to decide that, Chris.”

“Came... here... didn’t I?” He pouted, and tried to look for his face to show him how sincere he was. “Want... it. Want... you.”

“And if you decide in the morning it was a bad idea?”

He shook his head as much as he could. “Sexy. And. Trust you. Do this... trust you.” There were words missing, but he hoped with context that Derek could figure them out. He felt so blissfully spaced out, but his cock was still semi-hard and he wanted it. He wanted that final (to him) submission. Wanted Derek to take the last bit of him and give him the release he really wanted and needed, not the fake half-lie of a lotioned hand in bed. 

“You ever think _I_ might not want to?” the other asked, but his voice was rough with bemused affection as he ran sure hands up and down his back. Chris arched like a cat, seeking more and more. He wanted those lips again, but he was too gone to ask for that.

“Oh,” he said, sounding distant but surprised. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

“Could say no, too.”

“That’s true.”

No, he hadn’t thought Derek might say no, but mostly because his fantasies had been so deeply buried that he’d never considered them to be actually possible. The idea of even _asking_ was so alien to him that now he had... had he? Or had he hallucinated the whole thing?

Warmer kisses that zig-zagged down his scratched and tender back said maybe not. Nothing held his hands down now but the memory of restraint, and he grabbed at the sheets and let out a guttural note of approval. Down and down went his lips, beard-stubble the aftertaste following soft kisses, his hands tracing the slight curves of his sides... down towards his ass. Chris was still wearing his jeans, and now he could feel the distant press of his damn car keys trapped between him and the bed. Derek shimmied them off him with marginal difficulties, and shoved the briefs down, too.

Pants pooled around his still-shoed feet... Chris was almost entirely naked below him. He didn’t feel at all self-conscious, and he turned his head to smile back at him.

“Want this,” he said. “Want you.”

“Good,” Derek answered, but now his tone was a little less controlled. “Want. **You**.” 

He parted his knees and worked them underneath himself, tilting his hips and offering his ass blatantly. He’d figured Derek would enjoy topping (or fantasy!Derek had, anyway), and although he might be getting on a bit, he knew he was in good shape for a human. He swayed left to right, giving him a good view, and was gratified when hands clamped his ass and held him still. It was tight like a vice, and he moaned in appreciation of that, too. Derek seemed to knead and paw at his ass some, which only made Chris’ cock fill more. It now took advantage of the increased space to spring fully to life, the tip grazing the sheets when he exhaled. Softer than he’d thought, Derek wasn’t actually a Spartan after all. 

“Fuck me,” Chris said. Not begged. Even if it sounded like it. 

“Working on it,” Derek replied, before following up with a tongue that met his balls first and licked up and behind. 

Chris howled and fucked into the air, toes scrunching up and world shaking around his head again. He begged for more and Derek delivered: a flat, wet, squelchy lapping that reduced his eyes to watering. Over and over his tongue moved, parting his cheeks as far as those tight hands would allow, squirming and slurping in a delicious cacophony. He was about to beg for mercy when first tongue – then finger – pushed in past that ring of muscle. He’d never... never. Victoria had teased him somewhat, had even rubbed the space on the outside between his balls and his ass, but he’d never been penetrated before. It was so gloriously _wrong_ and transgressive, so utterly **not** what he should be doing, that his whole world flipped over as he tried to fuck back onto his face. Chris screamed in delight, not even thinking how it might spook Derek.

There was a pause to accommodate – Derek likely scenting and reading the scene to ensure there was no distress – and then there was something cold involved around his balls and then another finger, scissoring into him. His body allowed the stretch, sure as it was, and when the lube finally made contact he was almost angry at having to need it.

He probably did, though. Relaxed he might be, but virgin to this he still was. Those two fingers worked him steadily, thrusting in and out until the knuckles hit his ass. He clawed harder at the sheets, head thrown back as the sensations spiralled deeper into him. It still went to his cock, but it felt now like his cock wasn’t just... wasn’t just outside. No. Not right. It felt like the _heat_ and **need** spread wider into him, taking in his balls, his ass, his whole damn groin. He was sure even a kiss to his thigh would have him coming right now, his cock dribbling slightly in anticipation where it dragged against the sheets.

Chris keened and yowled some more when the third finger slipped in, now grateful for the lube for making it faster. He wanted it all, but he wanted it right damn now. The calm from before was still around, but the angry, hungry wolf part of _him_ came out instead. 

“Sure?” Derek asked, waggling those three fingers in him like a master puppeteer. (And Chris could forgive him any bedmate, now, could forgive him for whoever he’d fucked or clawed or bitten, if it meant he could bring him so close to ecstasy so very, very fast.) 

“Fuck me already!” he insisted, though he knew if Derek refused him, he’d have cowed right back down, now. Cowed down and whined like a baby and fucked at the bedding until he reached a disappointing, half-climax. He was sure his pride wasn’t above that, sure he was too far gone to stop, even if Derek wouldn’t come right alongside him.

The first push in was heaven. Then hell. Then heaven. Even as relaxed and lubricated as he was, it was strange and his body fought it off as much as it welcomed the stretch. Again he was on the cusp of something, teetering between the on and the off, the trigger at the biting point, ready to snap one off. He panted roughly, then it was like the light went on all at once and Chris pushed back as Derek pushed in and he seated himself all the way inside, the slap of balls against his thighs so delicious he could cry. All his tired muscles protested – in the best possible ways – and Chris felt fuller than he ever had. His hole clenched tight around the fat cock inside him, moving with all the control he had to fuck himself onto the werewolf’s lovely, full dick. He could feel every last ridge, every pumping vein and artery full of blood, and he never, ever wanted to forget the sensation. He tried to etch it all in his mind before the movement blurred this perfection and animal need took over, but he was weak. He was weak, and he needed.

Claws in his side brought him down just enough, and he learned when to move, when to stay. They fucked slowly (too slowly, Chris begging for more and Derek refusing), the bed creaking and yawning under them. It was glorious, and Chris wanted it to go on forever. It almost felt like it did, and he was sure he passed in and out of consciousness a few times as Derek made love to him so sweetly, his coitus completely at odds with his earlier behaviour. His hands under a pillow, cradling his head as he let his cock hang below him, butting into the mattress when their coupling got too hard.

It was wonderful. It really was. He let the thick, fat shaft glide over places inside that no one ever had, let the hand around his cock stroke him in rhythm to their rutting... his mouth wet and his urgent need somehow transmuted into something else. Then all of a sudden there was a shaky, wobbly quality to Derek’s movements, a raggedness to his breathing. He was close, and Chris was ready.

“Come in me,” Chris begged. “Come in me. Please.”

He wanted to feel Derek own his ass as much as everything else, and he wanted his partner to feel a fraction of the amazing he currently did. It was only right, it was only fair. He needn’t have worried, though, because Derek’s shaky breath indicated he was going to. Chris was suffused with pride that he still had it, even prone on the bed with his butt lifted for the fucking like a good little bitch. Maybe Derek liked bitches like that? If he did, they were both in luck. Things got faster, harder; the bed creaking loudly in protest as the werewolf threw his considerable strength into things, and Chris could do nothing but hold on and yowl with it. 

One, two... three, four thrusts more and a strange feeling of sticky resolution flooded his gut, made him feel... wanted. Derek grunted something that wasn’t in any language as he came, and it felt like it went on forever and ever. Chris was probably lucky that he wasn’t female, because he was fairly sure after a thorough reaming like that? Any womb would fill up fat and content. Chris purred (yes, purred) and when the hand moved to fist his cock in earnest he was not long after. 

His climax was utterly bizarre, delayed and unexpected as it was. It was definitely a climax, definitely a sudden, sharp pleasure-pain that exploded out from his balls and into his cock, but it didn’t leave him feeling empty or disillusioned. Thick, ropey white trails joined his dick to Derek’s hand and he collapsed with a self-satisfied moan into the splattery mess he’d made. It wasn’t like one he’d get on his own, one he regretted the moment it was over. It was slow and sedate and so damn good. Chris sprawled, surprised to feel arms around him pulling him over onto his side. A nose against his ear, hands stroking him up and down. 

Good. That’s how he felt. Good. Good, safe, and cared for. He didn’t know if Derek would let him spend the night, but he wasn’t sure there was much of a choice in the matter. They could work out the intricacies of this then, could... maybe... negotiate future... events? Visits? Sessions? 

He’d like that, he decided. He’d like that one hell of a lot.

“Thank you,” Chris managed, probably after the twelfth time he drifted asleep trying. The boundary between awake and asleep had broken so thin that he wasn’t sure if some of his memories were minor hallucinations, now. No matter. “Thank you.”

The grunt he got in return was likely ‘you’re welcome’. Strong, fuzzy arms held him tighter, and he moulded himself against the body behind him. Derek considerately kept him out of the wet patch, though Chris wouldn’t have minded sleeping in his own filth. It would be a reminder of the complete satisfaction he’d felt, a proof positive of a time well spent.

This felt so damn good, Chris decided that nothing would ever ruin it for him. He turned his face to plant broken little kisses to his jaw, humming in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Go to sleep, Argent,” Derek rumbled at him, his nose and lips making more promises over salty skin. 

“Okay. But only if we can do it again in the morning.”

He was fairly sure Derek’s chuckle rocked him off to sleep afterwards. He was even more sure that meant it was a ‘yes’.


End file.
